Like old times
by codename.penguin
Summary: Short sweet moments of trying to reconnect with your former best friend. (A continuation of my 'Do you even care' series, now stretching into Sherlock's return in Season 3.)
1. her favourite smile

**Anote: **I find that I am missing the ability to just write a quick one shot which is not possible with the two multi-chapter fics I have going. So I have collected all my season 3 musings so far; one that is old and two brand new, to form a new collection of short stories.

Chapter 1- **her favorite smile**

Face shining with excitement, Sherlock burst through the front door of John's apartment. "JOHN! JOHN!'

_lilacs._

_neat._

_abandoned dinner_.

_John's keys on the table._

When no one answered his call, the newly reinstated consulting detective pounded up the stairs, 'we have a new case; a new case! Dead body in the park, no footprints! Come, John and bring your revolver!'

Sherlock flung open the bedroom door but jumped back just as quickly, when Mary shrieked and tried to cover herself with the bed sheets.

'GET OUT!' her soon to be fiancé roared needlessly as Sherlock stumbled away, crashing into the opposite wall in the process.

_Ow! Stupid transport!_

However, Sherlock quickly regained his balance and looked up just in time to have the door slammed in his face.

In the dark silence that suddenly enveloped him, the detective panted nosily; trying to recover his breath from his mad, happy dash from a few blocks away at their old place in Baker Street. Gently, he lay his forehead against the cool wall; reflexively facing away from the room he had been turned away from. He and John had come to an non-verbal agreement of sorts in terms of their abandoned consulting practice, but never in a million years did Sherlock think he would ever get use to this.

Defeated and suddenly depressed, the young man groaned miserably, clenching his fists to resist the sudden urge to hit the wall in frustration.

Nothing he did or said to John, seemed to be quite right anymore.

Why?

Why? Why? Why?!

Of course he knew why, and John knew why and everyone else knew why ...but still, the prickly question of why, relentlessly rolled around, over and over in his head like a big ball of tumbleweed in a desert.

He should leave.

_Yes._

If John found him loitering out here, he would be yelled at. Mary might even get out her hairbrush and smack him for intruding yet again, because that's what young ladies did when they were upset, didn't they? But Sherlock didn't move. Standing there in the cold darkness, it was remarkably easy to pretend that this wasn't his life, and that all of the events for the last two years had happened to someone else.

Sherlock straightened up quickly when he heard the door behind him open.

'I'm sorry!' he bawled out, almost desperately. 'I'm sorry that I am such a giant pain. I don't know how many times I can say ...'

The detective broke off in mid sentence, when he suddenly became aware that he was surrounded by a floral perfume. A gentle hand on his arms tugged, and slowly he turned.

'Hello,' he said stupidly, after a pause.

'Hello,' Mary replied softly in return, 'A new case? How wonderful. John is just getting dressed.'

The two of them stood staring at each other, Mary comfortable and Sherlock fidgeting with the edge of his blue scarf, thankful that no hard wooden hairbrushes were in sight.

'I'll call next time,' he hastened to inform her; as he stuck his hand in his trouser pocket and gripped John's house key tightly in his fist.

'You don't _have_ to call,' she insisted in a firm but causal tone, which was at odds with how startled she was a moment ago to be caught in the nude by the detective. 'We wouldn't have given you a key, if we wanted you to call in advance, but a knock would be nice. I am glad you are here. If you hadn't come by soon, I would have gone across to you.'

Sherlock, relieved that she hadn't asked back for his key now frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the _I'm glad you are here _remark_. '_Didn't John give you my number?'

Now it was Mary who fidgeted; twisting her hands restlessly in the belt of her dressing gown.

_Afraid? _

_Nervous?_

_Unacceptable._

'What's wrong?' Sherlock blurted out

Quickly she shook her head, placing her fingers against his lips in a quieting gesture.

Briefly, they looked towards the closed door.

'He's still having the nightmares?' Sherlock murmured in a rhetorical way.

'Twice this week he's run out of bed to make sure you were still here,' she reported with a pained look.

Sherlock stared off in the distance, 'he didn't come up.'

'He said he heard you through the window on the violin.'

That much was true. In this state of limbo, when he was attempting to salvage the few relationships of some importance, he was having trouble sleeping again. The music was the only non judgmental and loyal companion he apparently had left. Mycroft had tried to warn him that things had changed and to be gentle with what he had remaining, but Sherlock never imagined anything like this.

Sherlock would never forget the look on John's face that first night at the restaurant. Again, Sherlock wondered what he was putting his friend through by suddenly showing up like this? He had a fair idea of the images that John saw, whenever the doctor closed his eyes.

Sherlock squeezed her small palm.

'Thank you for telling me,' he said, pretending to be supremely confident as he studied some point over her head, 'I'll just have another little chat with him and get this all sorted out.'

Mary's heart ached for the two former best friends, who didn't know how to be around each other. Thank goodness for a new case! They might not be able to talk to each other, but they could work, and in so doing hopefully build back trust, one proverbial brick at a time.

'If you had to define a promise, how would you say it?' Mary suddenly asked out of the blue.

This time Sherlock turned to her with a curious look, which she returned with a patient smile.

'A promise is when you say you will do something and you do it, no matter the cost.' he answered her when no explanation seemed forthcoming.

'And will you take care of my good doctor?' she then asked quietly as she looked into grey blue eyes which were dulled by pain, exhaustion and unpleasant memories that she speculated may cause him to have his own share of nightmares.

'Of course I will take care of him,' Sherlock said automatically, before he slowly smiled at her; the smile that made his mouth crinkle around the corners, in short, her absolutely favorite smile. 'I promise, Mary.'

There was forgiveness in her manner; forgiveness for pain that she too had suffered by being in a relationship with John. In a way, this shared pain caused from his long absence and fake death, bond her to him almost as much as it did John.

Hesitantly, he reached across and touched the side of her face with his fingertips.

'And do take care of yourself too,' she added. Sherlock stiffened and tried to pull away, as she stood up on tip toe and brushed her lips over his.

'And what is this,' John inquired as he came up from behind them, shrugging on his dark jacket, 'leaving me for the good looking bloke? My heart is crushed.'

'Don't be absurd, John!' Sherlock snapped sharply in alarm; still not fully re-acclimatized as yet, to being around the type of people who casually teased and hugged and kissed to show affection and love. As a result, the detective grabbed Mary comically by the tops of her shoulders and shoved her rather inelegantly into the doctor's arms. 'Here you go.'

The couple laughed loudly as they stumbled on their feet; trying to get their limbs untangled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sprang forward to grab them by their arms to ensure they didn't fall; which lead to the three of them standing in a loose circle.

'Good night, my dear' John said as he cuddled her briefly, 'don't wait up for me; go get some sleep. Sherlock has no concept of time, especially when a dead body is involved.'

'Good night, Dr. Watson,' she replied. 'I love you.'

Sherlock was so close, he couldn't help but stare.

Eagerly he looked all he wanted as the two kissed, marveling at the way John immediately relaxed and closed his eyes and how Mary did the same; softly curling her arms around her lover's neck. It was nice and oddly comforting to watch, but Sherlock found all this kissing put one in an extremely vulnerable position. Any old body could come up and conk John on the back of his head, while he was so distracted. Perhaps Mary was right in asking him to keep an eye on John.

Sherlock nodded, resolving to not only pay careful attention to her request, but to also knock on all their doors in the future.


	2. useless wanker

Chapter 2-**Useless wanker**

It took Sherlock only about 15 minutes to return to 221B.

John was still where he had left him, sitting in his old armchair, staring into the fire; hands warming on a glass of something stronger than tea.

Quietly Sherlock hung up his Belfast, wondering if he shouldn't have bought some take out; just so they could have something to do.

They were still struggling past that awkward phase of no-I'm-not-dead/I-could-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands-god-I-really-want-to.

'Where were you?' John whispered into the silence, not turning his head.

'Oh, well went to smoke a ciggie, didn't I?' Sherlock lied, wincing at how his voice seemed an octave higher than normal, 'I thought you wanted some peace and quiet.'

John rolled his eyes, 'It was a rhetorical question to open the conversation, Sherlock.'

The doctor waved his mobile and read out the text message there.

_He took your side, the useless wanker! _

Sherlock threw himself down on his armchair and stared at the ceiling; looking pale and confused.

'Why did you even go over there?' John asked, trying not to laugh, at the other man's reaction. 'I told you she's stressed out with the wedding. What did you say to Mary?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'I don't know. It was a truly bizarre conversation. One minute, I am saying hello, and the next she's beating me around the head with a newspaper.'

John snorted under his breath and sipped his whisky.

'But I am glad you're with me on this, Sherl,' the doctor said gratefully, 'there's only so much of this wedding business that a man can stand. I mean, for crying out loud, is one evening off from napkins, and place settings and china patterns too much to ask for? Christ! You would think I suggested that we drown our first born.'

Sherlock glanced quickly under the settee, where a stack of Modern Bride magazines were just peeking out. He didn't have a problem with Mary's enthusiasm, in fact he was quite getting into the swing of it now himself.

However, the detective emitted a grunt, as if in agreement with John.

The truth of it was, that the detective had jogged across to John's new place at a fast clip, upset and worried that his sudden return may have precipitated a massive argument with the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Watson. He was so relieved that it had been all a matter of napkin folding, that he had laughed out loud, much to Mary's displeasure.

John drained his glass in one gulp, and put it to one side, 'So, what have you got for me?'

Sherlock looked across at him with a steady, blank expression.

'Oh come on, don't be like this. You must have something on...robbery, poison, espionage. At this point, I will take even a dog kidnap.'

'Well, Lestrade...'

'Thank the, Lord!' John cried as he leaped out of his chair, hauling Sherlock to his feet and hustling them both the staircase.

Sherlock smiled to himself, as he grabbed their coats on the way out. It was almost like old times again.


	3. i'll be good

Chapter 3-**I'll be good**

John tapped at Sherlock's bedroom door.

A loud thump that sounded like a phone book, crashed into the wood; rattling it on its hinges. 'Go away, Mycroft!'

'It's me,' the doctor announced, placing his hand on the doorknob, waiting for Sherlock's permission.

His eyebrows rose at the silence within.

'Can I come in?' he repeated, 'Why are you not answering your mobile?'

More silence answered him, and John was starting to get worried now. The detective had been holed up in 221B for a week, with no reason for his absence. He and Mary had grown accustomed to the sight of Sherlock, pressing his face pathetically against their window in the evenings, as if still unsure if he was really welcome there or not.

'Mary's made something nice for tea, today.' he wheedled, 'you coming?'

'No, thank you,' Sherlock said in a cheery forced way that sounded highly suspicious. 'A bit under the weather, so I won't come out. Please give her my love.'

John rattled the doorknob in his palm, 'let me give you a once over, then? Do you have a temperature?'

More silence.

Biting his lip anxiously, John pressed his ear to the door.

It took a minute to figure out that the sound he was hearing was that of muffled sobbing.

Of course by this time, the ex-army captain didn't hesitate a moment longer to use the spare key from Mrs. Hudson. 'I'm coming in.'

The smell of infection was ripe in the air; temporarily paralyzing the doctor with fear.

'Sherlock!' he cried as he dashed towards the small huddled lump in the bed.

Falling to his knees he peered up into Sherlock's tear stained face, 'Please, no more hospitals, John. I'll be good, I'll do whatever you say. Please...please help me.'

'Oh God,' John muttered; desperately trying to remember his training in the face of this unexpected crisis. This is why time and time again, doctors were not allowed to treat family. 'Okay...okay; try and keep calm. The cuts on your back have opened up again, haven't they? Why didn't you call me?'

John dashed off to get hot water and the medical kit.

'Didn't want to be a bother,' Sherlock whimpered into the empty room.

John soon returned, with a steaming bowl and clean bandages. 'You will need antibiotics.'

'No...won't it go away on its own,' Sherlock begged in a whisper; frightened by the idea that it was so bad.

John knelt again and reached out one hand to stroke his former flat mate's bushy hair. With the patience that always characterized his part in their relationship, John waited for Sherlock to regain his composure.

'I'm glad you're here,' the detective murmured, as John rolled him gently on to his stomach. 'I'll be the best patient you've ever had. You'll see.'

John smiled sadly at Sherlock's promise, as the disaster of the man's still healing scars presented itself.


	4. what a man has to do

Chapter 4- **what a man has to do**

Sherlock jerked back in surprise as his test tube frothed in a most unexpected manner. With a growl of frustration he the pulled off his goggles and threw it across the room, where it clattered against the wall before ricocheting back to tumble into an open box.

The living room was saved from further destruction when his mobile chirped.

'Answer mobile,' Sherlock intoned slowly and clearly, and he grinned gleefully as any child with a new toy, when his updated device did just that.

'Sherlock,' Mary answered, 'I just managed to wrangle him on to the sofa and put his hand into a bucket of ice. I hope you are doing the same.'

The detective raised his head at this very promising beginning, 'tell me more.'

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. 'Wait, aren't you and John on a case?'

'Not that I am aware of,' Sherlock replied truthfully, before he remembered that John had told him it wasn't absolutely necessary to blurt out everything on his mind to his girlfriend. Was this one of those instances?

'Well...err...' Sherlock cast about desperately for some plausible excuse to why John might need to have his hand in a bucket of ice. He didn't want to be the cause of any trouble, not when everything was going so much better between him and his former 'partner in crime'. 'Well sometimes Mary, a man has to...'

Sherlock had been busy texting Lestrade to see if knew anything and his heart fell, when the man texted back a negative response.

_'John hasn't helped me with a case in over a year' -GL_

'A man has to...'

'If you want to be helpful then come over here and talk to him!' she snapped, 'I will not have a husband who brawls in the street for no good reason. Do you hear me?!'

Hastily, Sherlock packed his precious petri dishes into a shoe box to go.

'On my way,' he replied meekly, as John had advised him to do if he was on the receiving end of that tone of voice from Mary.

When he arrived, the detective didn't get much out of his friend who, still white lipped and vibrating with suppressed anger, stared transfixed at the television, pretending to watch a rerun of the Big Bang theory.

Well he was able to deduce that John had started the fight, and even though the person was taller and bigger than he was, John had managed to hold his own; the altercation didn't happen out in the street, bystanders had tried to restrain John but that hadn't been successful at all; and eventually he had to be dragged off by the loops of his belt.

All easy enough to conclude from the wealth of trace evidence on his friend's clothes.

Mary squashed him into one of her sitting room armchairs and handed him a large mug of tea; indicating she was in one of her black moods and she didn't want to look at John.

How could Sherlock refuse when she so obligingly measured his petri dish cultures every thirty minutes for growth?

As he wriggled around in the cozy chair, trying to find the most comfortable spot, the detective didn't mind the domestic tension in the room as another man might have. He was just happy that he was allowed to share in any part of John's life, at all.

The next day when the consulting detective dropped by Mycroft's office to answer his urgent summons, Sherlock was so stunned to see his brother sporting a fresh black eye, that he was at a loss for what to say.

'How bad does it look?' Mycroft drawled. 'Perhaps it would have been better if in the grand scheme of things, I should have told your Dr. Watson, that I had no idea how you received those injuries on your back.'

Sherlock could only smile happily, at this very tangible evidence of John's continued deep and loving regard for his well being.


	5. what else?

**Anote**: I have read a lot of stories of John being suicidal because of the events of the Fall, so I thought I would give it a spin. Warnings for such.

Chapter 5-**What else?**

Mycroft looked around quickly, when a smudge of darkness seemed to move at the corner of his eye. With a sigh and gentle shake of his head, he put down his knife and fork as Sherlock stepped forward into the gentle glow of the candles set around his dining room table.

Wordlessly, he gestured for Sherlock to take a seat.

He then raised an inquisitive brow when his brother pulled his long coat around his body as he sat down, and stared off into space.

As he waited, Mycroft idly wondered if the other man had evaded his personal security, or if they allowed him to walk right past.

Considering the whole of England thought that Sherlock was dead for two years, his guards probably didn't know what to think.

'What do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?' Mycroft asked, as no reason for this late night call seemed to be evident.

'What else?' Sherlock murmured.

'I beg your pardon?'

'From you I know that he left 221B, and then proceeded to drift from one job to the next,' Sherlock began to explain in a soft voice, 'and from Mary I know about the drinking and the nightmares. What else?!'

Silence fell as Mycroft studied the side of Sherlock's face, 'What has occurred?'

'Oh for the love of God!' Sherlock uncharacteristically shouted, 'Can't you just...for once; can't you just answer the question?!'

'I would rather not.'

Sherlock was completely taken aback by such a frank reply, 'What? Why?!'

More silence fell as the two siblings assessed each other.

'Because ...Sherlie, there is no unknowing a thing,' Mycroft replied softly, pleading with him to leave this alone, 'and I would spare you that pain if I could.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded his head, 'Mary had me frying chicken for supper, when John picked up his lap top and pelted it at my head.'

'I see,' Mycroft replied automatically, a bit stunned at such an unexpected occurrence; both the fact that Sherlock had been entrusted with dinner and that John had tried to injure his friend.

'He went to lay down after that with a cold cloth over his face,' Sherlock rounded off his story, massaging the bridge of his nose as if, like John, he was beginning to feel the pull of a migraine. 'Mycroft, I would really like to know. Please.'

Mycroft sighed heavily. 'Let's just say that I fully believe that if Ms. Morstan hadn't showed up when she did, there would have been very little left of the John you knew, remaining.'

Sherlock tensed and then snorted loudly, 'Attempted suicide, then? How unimaginative. Did he try to walk infront of a train, overdose? No..., a gun would be more his speed.'

The detective laughed loudly in an indecent sort of way, but in his eyes there was a growing look of something wild.

'No,' Mycroft admitted suddenly, deciding that they had already come so far, 'None of those things in fact. Although we were not on speaking terms, I think he knew I was looking in on him. Almost didn't realise what he was about until it was too late.'

Grey eyes connected with startled blue ones.

Up till now Sherlock had no confirmation, only vague suspicious; but now he knew for certain.

'I think you underestimated the strength of John's attachment to you,' the government agent remarked compassionately, '...you always have.'

Sherlock put his face in his hand, and wept.


	6. I use to wish

Chapter 6- **I use to wish**

It was turning out to be a typical October day. The morning was cold but bright, and then all within the space of a sharp sneeze, it had gone all grey and overcast.

Just your average Autumn day in England, really.

John looked up at the sky, and flinched as the first fat raindrop hit him square in the eye. After that, the heavens opened and out came the rain.

Perfect.

The doctor hunkered down stoically into his jacket to keep warm, while umbrellas opened all around him. He wasn't that far from his place and he was debating whether to dash home and get a brolly or just finish his errands all at once. The only thing left was to get a box of Panadol for Mary's cramps, and some lottery tickets.

As he stood there jigging on one spot, waiting for the light to turn, he suddenly realised that he was under the shelter of a large dark umbrella.

Turning around quickly to see if it was a person he knew, he almost got a mouthful of a familiar dark coat.

Sherlock smiled genially down at him, his own arms filled with a jar of honey (for an experiment), and a packet of biscuits (for eating).

'You are ill prepared for the weather today, my friend,' he said softly down at the small man at his side, as he tilted almost the entire umbrella over the blonde head.

Knowing John so well, at this point Sherlock knew he would laugh or either make some mundane comment, which though predictable and dull, were soothing patterns that were familiar to the detective. But John did neither of these things. Instead, the man just stared up at him and stared and stared and stared.

People started to giggle softly at this display, and the crowds had to part and walk around them, inorder to gain access to the street.

'John?'

The sound of his name seemed to snap the man back into reality, and John looked down and away quickly. 'Sorry.'

'Take my arm,' Sherlock commanded him, 'you are not well. Take my arm.'

John cleared his throat which had closed up a bit, 'I am well. Please don't fuss.'

But Sherlock was insistent, and John had no choice but to take the elbow that was thrust out infront of him. Quietly they walked off into the rain, in the direction of John's apartment.

'Do you need to sit?' Sherlock asked sharply; glancing over into John's face every couple of seconds.

'I was just...startled,' John murmured evasively.

'I startled you?' Sherlock repeated in disbelief, 'John, we live a few streets apart and we have met several times without prior planning. I find it hard to believe...'

He broke off in mid sentence, as John pulled him to a stop.

The doctor was upset and of course he didn't know why. He never knew why anymore.

This never mattered much in the past. John would be in a strop for something or the other, but Sherlock could always distract him with some new case or tasty puzzle, but that wasn't so easy these days.

'Should I say I am sorry again?' Sherlock whispered unsurely.

This time John did laugh, but in a wistful sad sort of way. 'Don't make fun at what I am going to say, alright? When you were gone...'

The doctor gestured in a vague way but the younger man understood.

'...I use to wish that you would come up behind me, like how you did just now.'

Sherlock flinched when John's voice broke.

'I wished for it like...a thousand times.'

John stopped to take calming breaths, not wanting to break out into sobs in the middle of road and embarrass Sherlock,'Need a minute.'

The detective stood quietly as requested, but drew John a little closer to his side.

Finally John lifted his head, 'Right. Let's finish this shopping, shall we?'

Sherlock was about to offer the other man his umbrella and leave, but obediently he followed John to the shops. They didn't talk much, but after depositing their bundles with Mary, they set off in the rain again.

For the rest of the day, they tramped around the wet empty streets of London.


	7. Eighteen

Chapter 7- **Eighteen**

Sherlock strolled along with a decided spring in his step. He was in a frightfully good mood this morning, and had decided to get out and enjoy the best city in the world.

London.

Oh how he loved her.

_I love you red phone box._

He gave the booth a loving pat as he walked past.

_Oh how I missed you, powdered sugar donut. Nom nom._

The detective dusted the sugar off his blue scarf.

_Cigarettes...oh...no...walk quickly; walk quickly!_

The man bowed his curly head, and power walked past the exclusive cigar store that boasted the best brands from all over the world.

Gradually he slackened his pace, as he strolled alongside the Thames. It was still early enough in the day that the walk was more or less tourist free; and he relished the solitary moment with his beloved capital. He had missed the city so much that his chest hurt when his helicopter had first landed, and he took his first great gulpful of foggy wet English air. Indeed, he had found it quite natural to fall to his knees and hug the cold tarmac.

Eventually Sherlock turned around, and picking up a half dozen donuts for Mary, he pointed his feet in the direction of his favourite couple's flat. The distance was not far, but since he was reminiscing on everything that he loved about being home, how could he turn away the black taxi cab that slowed and rumbled hopefully infront of him?

'A cabbie once tried to kill me,' Sherlock remarked conversationally to the driver, as he handed him a generous tip.

'Have a good day, sir,' the man chose to answer with typical English aplomb.

Sherlock waved his gloved hand energetically as the man motored off. However the detective frowned when he looked at his watch.

Five minutes to six.

John said he mustn't come around to visit before six, and with a surgeon's precision he really meant six on the nose.

No matter.

Sherlock had another donut to keep himself company while he waited.

Nom nom.

_Oh how I missed you, powdered sugar donut. _

Armed with a box of five donuts, he inserted his key and opened the door, after a perfunctory knock.

_I love you knobbly coat rack._

With a grin, he draped all his things over the old fashioned stand that Mary had acquired for his particular use. Finally he turned around, noting that he couldn't smell any coffee brewing or hear the tea pot hissing. In fact it was much too quiet, and cautiously he peered around the side of the wall.

'Mary?' he called quietly.

The woman looked up from where she sat on the couch, gently caressing John's hair as the man lay pressed to her chest.

Sherlock's heart dropped like a hot stone into his stomach.

She had been crying again.

With a small watery smile she beckoned him to come closer.

'Is he sick?'

'No, I am not sick,' John answered immediately as he opened his eyes, 'hey.'

Sherlock placed his gift on a side table. 'What's wrong?'

Mary put her arms around her doctor and cuddled him close.

'Just a bad night,' John tried to say casually to which Sherlock could only nod and then look at his feet.

Another bad night to add to the total of eighteen so far. Eighteen! And those were the ones he knew about it, since he returned. It boggled his mind to think that the most important person in his life, still suffered from something that happened two years ago.

Now he wished he didn't have those two pastries as his stomach roiled unpleasantly. Was he going to be sick?

Quickly he sat on the coffee table, and a depressing silence fell on the small group of friends.

'Is there a case?' John asked curiously.

Sherlock shook his head, and then coughed repeatedly to clear his clogged up throat.

'John, can I ask you something?

The small man sighed, 'Certainly.'

'Do you know any therapists?'

The doctor narrowed his eyes suspiciously, 'You know very well, I do.'

The detective looked up and gave the man a solemn stare, 'Can I have some contact information? I was thinking of talking to someone.'

John, still looking suspicious, scrolled through his mobile and texted a number to Sherlock's unit.

'Would you go with me?' the detective then blurted out as he saved the number, 'What if I say something and they lock me away?'

'There is no IF, about that,' John groused affectionately, with a small snort. 'Is this a roundabout way of implying that I should talk with a professional?'

'You know very well that I never waste precious time by saying anything in a roundabout manner!'

Worried now, John took hold of the man's limp hand, and gave it an encouraging squeeze. 'Can I come in with you? I think I would like that.'

'I would like that too,' Sherlock whispered back.


	8. Joy riding?

Chapter 9- **Joy riding?**

Sherlock wasn't in a good mood as he surveyed the dead body infront of him.

_Where was John?! _

Quickly he sent another text, completely ignoring Lestrade's description and findings of the latest crime to be fouling the busy landscape of London's streets.

'So what do you think?' the Inspector said in conclusion.

In reply, Sherlock turned around and walked away.

'Oi!' Lestrade protested in dismay, 'this is a nine, at least! Come on, you didn't even look!'

The grizzled detective frowned when Sherlock walked over to his car and entered into it without so much of a by your leave.

'Keys!' Sherlock barked while he adjusted the seat and mirrors to complement his lanky frame.

'What's up? Something wrong?' the older man asked, morphing from his Inspector mode into frantic-friend-please-don't-leave-again-for-two-years mode.

Sherlock looked up at the man's change in tone and what he saw there in his face caused him to pause. Briefly, he laid his gloved hand on the Inspector's tightly clenched fist which frantically gripped at the car door.

'John wasn't well this morning, and now he is not answering his phone.'

Lestrade cracked a feeble smile. No, not because John was sick but because he still wasn't getting use to this new version of Sherlock. The one who was still naturally a wanker of epic proportions, but who apparently now stopped for a minute to explain stuff.

'Was that hard for you to do?' Lestrade asked curiously in a serious manner, as he handed over his car keys, 'you know, telling me where you are going? I know how much you hate explaining yourself to us, simple minded people.'

Sherlock's stare was always intense, but Greg wasn't usually on the receiving end of it and the instinct to draw back was strong.

'No, it was not,' the young man said softly as he put the key into the ignition. 'I will be back shortly. Will...will you be looking out for me? I would like that.'

Lestrade didn't know how to respond to this sudden wistful sadness in the man's demeanour, as if Sherlock wasn't sure what he was about. Since when did he care if the Inspector was even at the crime scene or not? If it was anyone else, Greg would have asked again if everything was okay. But it wasn't anyone else, and Sherlock would verbally snap his head off and chew on it.

'Well yeah,' Lestrade said dumbly, 'can't leave the crime scene until the forensic people get here and besides, you have my car.'

'Oh right,' Sherlock said almost in disappointment as he looked through the windscreen, avoiding eye contact. 'Of course.'

'Tell John I said feel better soon and take some rest. Don't you boys go joy riding in my Betsy,' Lestrade joked wagging a finger at him, 'Bring it back in one piece, you hear me? '

Sherlock snorted under his breath.

'Is this joy riding something agreeable?' the young man suddenly asked out of the blue, 'Do you joy ride? I can accompany you during one session, if you so desire.'

'Sherlock!' the man cried in exasperation, 'what's wrong with you?'

But the curly haired consultant just shook his head in acute embarrassment and began to babble at top speed. 'It was a stupid idea, I know. Why would you want something like that? Please delete it from your hard drive as quickly as possible. There is no reason to bring this up again. Goodbye.'

Sherlock put on the indicator and peeled off the curb, leaving one confused Detective Inspector behind.


	9. Holding hands

...directly continued from last chapter

Chapter 10-**Holding hands**

By the time Sherlock used his key to open John's door, the doctor was struggling to sit up from where he had been resting on the couch. However, the defensive, unwelcome look on John's face, stopped his visitor from advancing further.

'You are sick?' Sherlock inquired rhetorically.

'I told you that last night,' John replied testily, 'I am not about to go slogging out in this weather. Please, stop texting me. It's not on!'

Sherlock walked in and took off his coat.

'I see,' he said in a sour voice.

The doctor flopped back on the cushions, unable to keep sitting up any longer. Shakily, he flung one hand to cover his face.

He was dozing on and off now, not realising that Sherlock was silently hovering over him watching and observing every change in his body, cataloging and cross checking against the extensive information stored in his mind files under the heading John-medical.

It was clear that the good doctor was in the early stages of what was going to be the mother of all flues.

Quietly, the tall man reached down to softly caress one pyjama clad knee, while he collected a box of tissues that had fallen over, and put it within John's reach again.

He then moved to the kitchen to get the man a glass of water.

'And what was all that with Greg?' John asked suddenly, waking up with a start, 'I think your offer to hang out, sort of scared him. He texted me.'

The doctor was smiling a bit through his fever, so Sherlock let his teasing pass. John wasn't the only one in the last two years who kept looking around, thinking that they had spied a familiar face in a foreign crowd only to be crushed by the reality of circumstance. When he wasn't seeing John in every short person that walked under his nose however, to Sherlock's amazement he saw the Inspector every time the sun touched a dark haired man, turning it to silver.

John stiffened in surprise when his ex-flat mate unexpectedly slipped one hand under his head, and raised the glass of water to his lips. Grateful though to have a supportive, slightly absentminded Sherlock rather than a petulant, fussy incarnation of such, the doctor drank deeply, not realizing how parched he had become.

The detective then went around closing the blinds, and the living room descended into a blessed coolness with a gentle patter of rain on the outside.

'Should I fetch Mary back from work?' Sherlock asked.

John shook his head, 'Not necessary, once you can heat up whatever is in that can.'

Unsurely, Sherlock picked up the container with its bright red label and with a look of intense concentration, he read the instructions.

There was a soup pan already on the stove, and Sherlock tentatively emptied the contents of the can, stirring frequently as directed. After awhile, when the soup didn't mushroom into a mutant creature out of a horror movie, Sherlock began to relax and stir with confidence.

_Ha! He could so do this!_

Next Sherlock opened the cupboard, where clean cups and saucers were immediately in view.

Mary's kitchen was peculiar like that.

However, when Sherlock attempted to hand over the bowl, the doctor clapped his hand over his mouth and shook his head.

'Not hungry,' John mumbled. 'Maybe later.'

Sherlock worried the spoon in the bowl, debating on whether he should press the matter. John would need the extra nourishment in the days to come. Finally, he covered the soup with a clean napkin and laid it close to where John could reach it.

In the meantime, the doctor had pulled the blankets over his chest as he stared up at the ceiling, struggling to keep his eyes open in the semi darkness.

The detective sat in Mary's armchair, knowing it was just a matter of time before John's body weakened pulled him under. It was such a shame too, because Lestrade was partly right. The new case was an eight, at the least.

'I will come back,' Sherlock said absently, but for the second time that day he was startled as a friend's hand shot out to prevent him from leaving.

How strange indeed his life had become.

When Mary arrived home that evening she smiled fondly at her two favourite boys fast asleep, holding hands.


	10. My spot

Chapter 10- **My spot**

Sherlock walked into his flat and with a petulant snarl of anger, he tossed his travel bags in a corner. 'That was tedious!'

A case that should have taken a day or two had morphed into twenty days of leg work.

Yes, you read that right.

Twenty days!

Sherlock stuck a long finger in his eye to give the bloodshot orb a good knuckle rub, when he froze in mid rub. In the silence as he caught his breath, he could faintly hear sounds of breathing from his half open bedroom door.

He had closed it before he had left.

He always did.

Burglars?

Grabbing a wicked looking dissecting knife from off his lab table, he tucked it into his sleeve, and slid silently to his bedroom. With a tilt of his head, he blankly stared at John fast asleep, spread out like a starfish on his stomach, still dressed in his work things.

A bit of a domestic with Mary, perhaps? But that happened in the past already, and the good doctor would kip on the sofa or his old room for the night.

Sherlock shrugged.

It didn't really bother him, except that John was in his spot. With a tired yawn that nearly swallowed the whole world, Sherlock slumped off to shower.

Twenty minutes later, the detective had put on his pyjamas and stared down at John wondering what to do.

Reaching out one hand, he shook the man's shoulder gently, 'My spot.'

John just grunted and batted the hand away.

Sherlock pouted.

When he did sleep, he slept alone. He and John had shared hotel rooms for cases of course, but this was different. In those instances, he just had to tolerate John's modest snores, not feel every twist and turn that his friend made as he slept.

Sherlock supposed though that he should just go to the other side, and not wake John. That is what a friend would do, wouldn't they?

'The things I do for you,' Sherlock muttered irritably, as he stalked around the bed. The man then proceeded to plump up some pillows and fetch a blanket for himself, but unfortunately when he sat down, the bed springs creaked.

John shot up in the air with a surprised yelp.

'SHERLOCK!' he shouted in horror, although the detective didn't know why the small man was so affected by his appearance. This was his room after all.

'John,' he said in politely in return.

The other man's eyes desperately darted around the room, as if the reason for why he was in here, would jump off the shelves and explain itself.

'I can explain,' the doctor began anxiously.

Sherlock threw a blanket over John's head, 'Not necessary, just go to sleep. You are welcome to stay.'

Eventually, the doctor pulled the blanket off to discover that his ex-flatmate had snuggled down on his side, with every intention of falling asleep in the next five minutes.

After a long moment as John stared at Sherlock's back, he reached out one hand to touch his head.

Yes, they had texted everyday but still...

The doctor let his hand fall to the mattress without reaching its goal.

'John,' the detective said unexpectedly, 'it is statistically unlikely that I would pretend to be dead and fall off the face of the earth, twice in my lifetime.'

John's whole body spasmed involuntarily. He didn't know what to say. Sherlock could still read him like a book. That hadn't changed and apparently never would.

Not seeing Sherlock for so many days, had brought the old nightmares back with a vengeance. The only thing that had helped during those dark days then, was to rest in here for a few hours.

'Statistically unlikely,' John murmured softly into the semi darkness, 'but still a possibility.'

Sherlock didn't reply.

Why should he?

It would only upset John and they would have a flaming, obscene row. If it was the only way to save his friends, Sherlock would disappear all over again, without hesitation.

Some sort of life was better than no life at all, wasn't it?! He wasn't going to argue this point again!

Upset now by these thoughts, Sherlock began beating his pillow into a more comfortable shape, only settling down when he felt John warm hand clasped on his shoulder.

A flood of contentment washed over his mind; soothing, quiet, supportive...down...down.

'Glad that you are here,' the small man whispered down to his now sleeping friend, as he lay back down and stared unseeingly at the ceiling, relaxed and content by Sherlock's soft snuffles.


End file.
